At the going down of the sun
by BenAddiction
Summary: A Remembrance Sunday fic in honour of all old soldiers. A post-Reichenbach, pre Empty Hearse story. Please review (please be kind). Rated T for language, though it is no worse than the actual show.


Wow, okay so this is the first story I have completed in over a year, so if you wanted to leave a review (please be nice) I would be really pleased, thank you. Obviously I still don't own any of this.

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old;

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

And at the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

(For the Fallen – Robert Laurence Binyon – 1914)

'John ... John Watson!'

The call of his name stopped the doctor in his tracks as he was making his way through the usual London crowds to the tube station. Turning, he saw a familiar head of grey hair as Inspector Lestrade pushed his way through the throng towards the shorter man.

Sighing, John looked up into Greg's face, his long years of medical training automatically noting the heavy bags and deep frown lines around the inspector's dark brown eyes. Evidence of the long sleepless nights plain to see.

'Greg, long time no see. I would say you're looking well, but to be honest, you look like crap.' remarked John as the policeman finally reached him.

Greg grimaced slightly before replying, 'Yeah well, I could say the same to you mate. How have you been?'

Moving out of the flow of pedestrians to the side of the pavement, pulling the inspector with him, John paused a moment to collect his thoughts.

'I'm doing okay, things are getting better I think ... I hope. Tomorrow will be difficult, but Remembrance Sunday always is, old soldiers and all that.'

'Mm, I imagine it would be. Look I've got some time, weekend off you know. Would you fancy ... I don't know ... going for a pint maybe?' asked Greg warily.

'Erm, there's something I have to do for an old friend, but ...'

'Well, if you need someone to come with you? I just ... I don't like the thought of you being on your own. I know we lost touch for while, but well, you know.' interrupted Greg.

Taking a deep breath, John looked up at his old friend. Smiling softly, he nodded as he replied, 'Yeah, that would be good, great actually. I just need to make a stop first, something I've got to buy.'

Nodding decisively, Greg turned and began making his way back the way he had come, calling over his shoulder as he walked, 'I've got my car just around the corner. It's got to be better than being squashed on the tube at this time of day, come on.'

Trotting after the older man, John shook his head as he was reminded of days when he ran after a much younger man, with adrenaline rushing through his veins.

Just before they reached Greg's car, John saw a poppy seller standing on the street corner. 'Greg, hold on a moment, I need to get something.'

Frowning slightly in confusion, Greg waited until John came back, holding a wooden cross with the attached poppy, in his hand. Glancing pointedly between the cross and the poppy displayed prominently on John's lapel, Greg raised an eyebrow inquiringly. John simply smiled, walked over to Greg's car and waited for it to be unlocked before climbing into the passenger seat.

Shrugging his shoulders, Greg started the car and pulled away. 'So where to?' he asked.

Giving the inspector the answer, John waited for Greg to make the obvious connection. Greg shot a quick look at his passenger as he manoeuvred his way through the London traffic.

'So ... the cemetery where Sherlock's buried.' stated Greg concentrating hard on his driving.

'Yes.' replied John with a calmness that surprised even himself, 'You can drop me off outside, if you don't feel that you can come with me. It's fine.'

'No, no. I said I would come with you. It's not a problem John, truly.' answered Greg with a small quirk of his lips into a quick smile.

The rest of the journey continued in silence, each man lost in his own thoughts.

When they reached the gates, Greg pulled the car into the small car park and parked the vehicle. Turning off the engine, he looked across at John and took a deep breath.

'Ready?' he asked quietly.

John nodded slightly as he busied himself with opening the car door and climbing out onto the gravel strewn path beside the car, the autumn leaves blowing in the breeze.

Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, Greg remained silent as he joined John on the well trodden pathways leading between the graves. The cemetery was virtually empty, only one or two people had ventured out on the chilly Saturday afternoon to tend the final resting places of their loved ones.

Slowing, John finally came to stop beside the black gravestone that signified the burial place of Sherlock Holmes. It was a rather plain marker, giving only his name. No dates, or poems, just 'Sherlock Holmes'

Wanting to give the doctor some space, Greg stepped back and looked around. He hadn't really taken it all in on the day of the funeral, the shock had still been paramount, everything had felt too raw. It was a peaceful spot, surrounded by trees. He could imagine it looking rather pleasant in the spring and summer when the blossom, and later, leaves were on the trees. Turning back, he watched as John knelt next to the grave and push the point of the poppy adorned cross into the soil. John then stood back up and brought himself to full attention before respectfully bowing his head.

Stepping away, John saw Greg watching him. He walked passed the older man, and began walking back to the car, Greg hurrying to catch up.

Once they were both seated back in the car, before turning on the engine, Greg turned to John with a confused expression on his face. 'Mate, Sherlock ... well ... he ...' unable to finish what he was trying to say, and not really knowing what to ask, Greg ground to halt, hoping John would fill in the gaps.

John sighed as he replied 'You're thinking that Sherlock wasn't a soldier, yeah?'

When Greg nodded slowly, John continued. 'I was told once, that when you walk with Sherlock, you see the battlefield. Admittedly, the man who told me was a cold-hearted bastard, but he wasn't wrong...'

'Cold-hearted bastard ... Moriarty?' interrupted Greg, the confusion still clear to see.

'Mycroft.' replied John, 'but the point I'm trying to make, is that Sherlock was very much a soldier. He fought the forces of evil in this very city. Obviously he would have made a a terrible actual soldier as he couldn't follow orders if his very life depended on it, but he deserves to be remembered. And as long as I'm around, he will be.' John's tone of voice showing his commitment to his friend more clearly than his words ever could.

Recognising John's feelings, Greg nodded, 'Of course John, we should remember all who have died.' Trying to inject some levity, he then continued, 'So, earlier, I mentioned a pint. I can drop the car off at home and we can walk to my local. So, shall we?'

'Sounds like a plan, and a very good one at that.' replied John with a smile, as Greg started the engine and pulled out of the cemetery car park.


End file.
